Who Heals the Healer?
by Laura L
Summary: The last of the Elven healers, from Celeborn's house, leaves Middle-earth for Valinor, but she takes her sadness with her.
1. Default Chapter

Who Heals the Healer? By Laura L.  
  
Just playing in Tolkien's sandbox. With his toys.  
  
Part One: "New to Grief"  
  
It was in their hearts that Elves felt their mortality.  
  
Arien reflected on this fact of nature as she stood before her lord, Celeborn, Prince of the Sindar. She had lingered, one of the rare heart- healers of her generation, longest in the Mortal Lands, and found that her role was now concluding, for she was leaving the lands of her birth on the Last Ship.  
  
Another life awaited in the Undying Lands of Valinor, but like her lord, Arien found it a trial to find joy in the leave-taking from one to the other. It was not that she treasured her life in Middle-earth. No, indeed. The latest years had been the cruelest to her, and perhaps that was why she could find no joy in this passage; she had forgot how to feel joy.  
  
It was in the heart that Elves feel their mortality, indeed. She had seen and felt that mortality in those last years.  
  
"I, too, am reluctant," Celeborn said kindly, motioning with a slender hand for her to sit next to him. He held court on the foredeck of the ship, under the gauzy canopy erected in times of good weather. "Valinor is not the end, although you and I have perceived it as such, for both of us called Middle-earth our home. It is a place of new exploration, surely, for there are new forests to travel, new friends to make."  
  
Arien nodded silent assent at this. She was not much in noble company, and feared that her unhappy mood would be taken as disrespect, and held her tongue. One was always careful around the eldest.  
  
As ancient as he was, Lord Celeborn showed his long life only in his dark blue eyes that seemed as aged as the very world. Tall and long-limbed, both of them, with rare blue eyes in a race populated by gray-eyed people, and light haired as some Teleri were. She had forgotten the resemblance they shared, but now recalled with unease how it had been remarked how alike she and his daughter had seemed.  
  
It had not been a comparison she relished.  
  
Not for the first time she had pulled herself from sad lethargy below-decks to show her respect to the man who was her lord, and this time had brought with her a book of leaves that she had collected over her sojourns in her final years in Middle-earth. This Celeborn took in hand, examining every leaf with evident and unfeigned interest. He, too, had loved the woods too well. He said no word until he was finished, and returned the book, looking finally on her face with eyes unfathomable as the deepest lake.  
  
"You are young and new to grief," he said finally, in that quiet way he had. "As a healer you have seen suffering, and in your own way have suffered as equally, but now you must bear your own griefs as we all must." He looked out upon the calm ocean, his eyes reflecting the waters. "I remember your parents."  
  
Arien was glad of it. Both of her parents had lost their lives in the fall of Doriath, when Arien had been little more than a child. Her father's name was now legend; her mother's name lost in the winds of past history. But she had a good family name that harkened to Elu Thingol, one that she was proud of, and an allegiance to one just as noble.  
  
"Arien Cúthalion," he said. "Did you know my daughter?"  
  
"Nay, Lord, I did not," she said. Would that she did not know that name, or that name's sorrow. "I know of her, of course. I was his healer, as you know, My Lord."  
  
He may have forgotten, but his look said otherwise. Celeborn the Wise, they said, did not forget. It was as much a failing as it was a strength. "You have her look, but you will be stronger, I doubt it not."  
  
The story of his daughter, Celebrían, was well known, even to those who were not privy to the family's woes. Arien was rare in that she had known the husband, the Lord of Imladris, and had guided him through the heartbreak of his wife's leave-taking.  
  
Celeborn was still a moment, then with eyes flickering, he inquired: "Who named you, Lady?"  
  
"I know not, My Lord," she replied. "Some say my mother; others my father."  
  
"I would lay odds on your mother," he said, but did not explain himself. "Have you never been given an epesse?"  
  
"My given name always seemed apt enough," she said with a smile. Her name was rather unimaginative, but one of ancient origin, and optimistic.  
  
"Celebarien," he said after a moment's thought.  
  
For a moment, she did not understand his meaning, then she found herself smiling in pleased surprise. This was a great honor, and would have been presumptuous of a lesser man, but to his people, Celeborn was as a king.  
  
"Celebarien," she repeated. Suddenly, a name she had thought as common took on a different stress, and it was lovely, so exquisite that she felt she might weep. "Many thanks, Great Lord," she breathed. "Silver light of the sun. I hope I shall carry the name graciously."  
  
"As I, you will have to grow into it," the lord said, somewhat dryly. "I do not regret you your task, however. And a new name for a new land is not so hard a trial."  
  
"No, indeed, Lord," she said.  
  
++++++++++++++++++++  
  
She stood behind with his knights and marchwardens as the ship passed Tol Eressëa (marked because Celeborn had been named for the silver tree that grew there) and Alqualondë, where many a well-remembering eye lingered, and slipped into the Bay of Eldamar.  
  
When he saw his wife, Galadriel Lady of the Galadhrim, on the docks, his silvery blue aura sparked and flared. He seemed to stand taller, and a brightness came to his eye. Celebarien's healer's soul rejoiced in this newfound happiness, even as her own soul grieved. There was no kin, no father or mother there on the shore for her, no relatives, for many had died in Doriath's siege in ancient days. Only scattered cousins remained, many of them unknowable by face although she knew their names. She had been ward to the Healers House for time immemorial.  
  
And sadder still, her healer's duty, the bitterest duty, was yet to come. Already, she perceived that there would be some left waiting on the dock, lingering for Elves who would never arrive, who had faded from despair or had willed themselves to death. It was her last responsibility to deliver the news of their loved ones' fates.  
  
But as her eyes strayed idly through the assembled crowds on the shore, past the Lady's entourage, she caught a grouping clad in sky blue, and a tall male with sunset-auburn hair among them. Yávië? Was it Yávië, she wondered, for few had that coloring, and that sky-blue color was the healers' color. If Celebarien were forced to name one person who had succored her in the place of her deceased parents, it would Yávië's name she would utter, and happily.  
  
Why so many in healer's blue, she wondered, unless they too understood the last duty here? It certainly wasn't for her arrival. Oft the bitter wellspring of her memory reminded her how little she had been regarded, left in Middle-earth for the harshest of duties, alone among the healers to take on the burden. No one had stayed to help shoulder that task.  
  
A swell of welcoming cries greeted Celeborn as he glided down the ship, but Celebarien and his household held back on deck; no one crowded him as he approached his wife as she stood in the forefront of the welcoming throng. In fact, a hush fell. Theirs had been a strange romance, more often apart than together, two personalities more often at odds than at peace. The lady Galadriel was as powerful, ambitious and perilous as she was beautiful, but her husband's retiring and deep-thinking nature seemed to counter-balance those traits in her even as his pale silver coloring complemented her golden hair.  
  
Lord Celeborn took his wife's hands and raised them briefly to his lips. Ah, he was happy, she could see, and the lady herself was pleased to see her lover. More than pleased, if Celebarien read that shining aura rightly. And why not, to have a husband such as he return at last?  
  
"Ah," someone sighed behind her.  
  
She was one of the last to leave the ship, an eye to see if the horses were being unloaded and the other eye on the group of blue-garbed healers. Indeed, it was Yávië striding purposefully forward.  
  
It was then, strangely, she realized there had been two conspicuously absent from Celeborn's welcome, and one of them had been his beloved daughter.  
  
+++++++  
  
"How should I interpret this welcome?" she asked Yávië, taking his hands.  
  
"No interpretation required," the healer replied with a bright smile, "only that we have waited for your arrival for these many years."  
  
Celebarien nodded to the healers behind her friend, recognizing some faces from Lothlórien's healers' enclave. Her eyes strayed to the docks, where the Lord and Lady were mounting to leave, shipping masters unloading baggage and animals from the hold, and a few Elves stood, waiting.  
  
Waiting for someone who would never come. She blinked and tightened her grip on Yávië's hands and the healer made a soft sound of commiseration.  
  
"It is my obligation," Celebarien told him. "Will you wait?"  
  
"I will do better," he replied. "I will help."  
  
And so it was that Celebarien Cúthalion, the last healer from the Last Ship, dispatched her final duty laid upon her by the lands of her birth, and told the closing tales of those willingly left behind to the ones most destroyed by the hearing.  
  
She had long ago left her family's horses in the care of the Lothlorien stable master, for a healer rarely had need of a horse, especially a horse bred to the hunt and fight, as her family's were apt to be bred. Her favorite, Morrillë, she had seen debark for the Galadhrim's stables, and so allowed herself to be mounted on a more placid steed who would follow her companions without complaint.  
  
They had established themselves in the greater Woods of Orome, woods much like those as they had in Middle-earth in the early years when Lothlórien had been young and fully preserved by Elvish power. Yávië told her that most Elves lived in cities in Valinor, Tirion and Alqualondë in particular, which made the woods open domain for tree dwellers like themselves and the Elves out of Mirkwood, who had also taken up their old ways deeper in the interior.  
  
"There are such trees here as you would love," she was told. "And some still think and move, even talk. There are mallorn high and stately as ever they had been in Lórien. The expanse is wider, and the healers have their own quarter a little deeper into the woods; it is quiet and perfect, and there is a river."  
  
Yávië's descriptions brought her out of her melancholy enough to glance about. It might have been Middle-earth ages in the past, a paradise of perfectly artistic roads, fields yellow with wild flowers, woods standing vast and old, where no ax had been felt, ever. She found herself blinking about, waking a bit. She was in Valinor, and no one had died here but by his or her own will for thousands of years, and all was plentiful.  
  
In the early evening, they turned south and passed under the eaves of a great forest, and she could see that there were mallorn interspersed among the smaller trees. Here and there, Galadhrim marchwardens, armed in the particular way of her people with bow and knife, stood among the trees, watching their passing. In Lórien, they would have been guards, but now they just watched. One of them she recognized.  
  
"Haldir," she murmured, and reigned in her horse as the dark-haired Galadhrim lord stepped out from under the shade of the trees into the path. Haldir had known her father and had taught her the bow and arrow. He was more uncle to her than any of her real kin.  
  
"Arien," he said. "Or pardon, Lord Celeborn said you have a new epesse."  
  
Her companion healers looked at her in askance; she had not gotten around to explaining that detail.  
  
"Celebarien," she said, to them and to him. "I like it well."  
  
He helped her down and they embraced. Then he set her back and bit and studied her face with an acute eye. "I see why he gave you that name," he said after a moment. "You look like her."  
  
There was a stir among her friends and he glanced at them, lifting a brow. "You haven't told her?"  
  
"Nay," Yávië muttered. "We were hoping not to add to her grief today."  
  
"It is inevitable," he returned. "The lord and lady will summon her tonight; doubt it not."  
  
"What has happened? What haven't you told me?"  
  
"It concerns Lord Celeborn. His daughter, the Lady Celebrían (after who you were named, I am sure), willed herself to death less than a moon ago. Once off the road, I'm sure he will be told; he might already suspect, because neither she nor her husband, Elrond, were among the welcomers today."  
  
Celebarien rubbed her arms as if to ward off a chill. She had seen too many Elves will their deaths, and yet could not feel complacent over such a deed. "Why?"  
  
"She was never the same after the Orcs took her. Even coming here did not completely heal her, and now that her sons are full grown, and her father assured to return, and all safe, she must have thought it her time to go."  
  
Yávië sighed. "It is not uncommon here, .Celebarien. The happiness of this place sometimes has the opposite effect on those scarred by their lives in Middle-earth."  
  
Celebarien closed her eyes, envisioning a fair, grave face, long lengths of black hair and eyes clear and gray. How she had avoided thinking on him! "How has Lord Elrond taken it?" She knew that this was the worst thing for him, after his children had decided to remain on Middle-earth. The ultimate of defections, leaving him alone.  
  
"Hard. He was ever hopeful that she might one day return to herself, and for a time, when he came to these shores, she seemed to be happy. But it soon passed. Her pain was inside, where no one could touch it, not even him."  
  
Haldir sighed. "We all fear Lord Celeborn's reaction."  
  
"He loved his daughter very much," Celebarien said. "Am I not proof of that? He gave me a special place on the voyage, and named me for her. Oh, poor our lord! I cannot stand to think how he will suffer."  
  
"He will call for you tonight, I am sure," Haldir replied, and helped her remount. "I will come to your encampment, when you are summoned."  
  
They bid each other farewell and the healers continued their trek into the new forests of the Galadhrim, the woods of Loreryn.  
  
The summons came soon after sundown, and Celebarien followed a grave Haldir into the new home of the Galadhrim, the center of the vast forests. There, the mallorn grew so tall, they far surpassed the great trees of Lothlórien, and their golden flowers bloomed large and bright in the dimness of the darkening night. The flets upon these trees were familiar in design, but the power of the Valar was in their making, and they seemed one with the trees that supported them. Here, the power of Galadriel was also visible, and it had grown in proportion to the power of Valinor. Celebarien wondered if Celeborn, himself Sindarin and a "dark Elf," would also find power here, having never once seen the Light of the Trees, nor ever set foot in this land before this day.  
  
In that way, her own fate and her lord's were entwined, both strangers, both grieved by the pain inflicted upon them by the only home they ever knew.  
  
But poor her lord! To lose one's child must be the sharpest of all torments, for children were rare, and he had only the one in his whole life. It was true that after a certain amount of time, many of their people lost the need to procreate and turned their passions to other areas of their lives. There was still love in the arms of their mates, but their energies went elsewhere, and there were fewer children.  
  
Haldir was silent at her side, his eyes seemingly turned inward on some solemn thought, but as their steps brought them into the main clearing and in the sight of the greatest mallorn, he said: "Be of comfort to him. No wound is upon him, but his heart ."  
  
The climb was long but there were known faces as she passed others on the steps, though few she knew by name. She had not, or ever had been, a fixture in the court surrounding the Lord and Lady, her only contacts being with those other healers and those whom she had tended.  
  
But each gaze she met with her own held the sad understanding of why she was here, and what her purpose was. Towards the top, one visage arrested her, its familiarity momentarily stunning her. For a moment she battled for breath, but long practice gave her the semblance of calm.  
  
This one was no stranger, for he had come to her in times past, visiting the land of his father-in-law, his heart minutely scarred by the defection of his wife.  
  
Elrond, formerly lord of Imladris and husband to the esteemed Lady Celebrían.  
  
Their eyes met and he stepped forward, stopping her. His expression, pale and pained, somewhat reassured her healer's heart with its mildness. Despite the sturdiness of his heritage, the lord was rather oversensitive and introverted, and had not purged his grief and guilt over his wife's torments and departure. It warmed her that he seemed to be dealing well with his emotions now, his eyes still clear, meeting hers without flinching.  
  
"My lord," she said, inclining her head, her heart quickening its pace, part panic, part some other unacknowledged emotion.  
  
"I would not delay you," he said, and held out a hand to a companion next to him. He brought up a circlet of small mallorn flowers, cunningly plaited, and placed them on her crown. He was tall and she did not have to lower her head. "Be welcome, Lady. I hope you can bring heart's ease to my father as you have to me in the past."  
  
"You are kind," she returned. "And would that I had hours to ask after your own heart, but I fear it is not to be."  
  
"I am not the one who needs you most," he said with a little, pleased smile. "But we will have those hours, never fear." He offered his arm, and Haldir relinquished her in deference to the other lord.  
  
They came into the greatest inner chamber, and it was not as she feared; there was a small select company here, not the crowds she had dreaded. Elrond brought her straight to the seated Lord and Lady. "The Lady Celebarien," he announced unnecessarily, and stepped away, her last prop vanishing.  
  
She dropped into a deep obeisance, and rose to find the two watching her, their hands joined between their close-standing chairs.  
  
"I had forgotten," the Lady murmured in her husky voice. "Beleg's daughter. you have been too long away from the center of our kingdom, ensconced among your own kind."  
  
There was a pause, to which Celebarien responded: "I have not the nature of a courtier, great lady."  
  
"Nor do many healers," Elrond said from his seat, himself a healer and wise in such matters. "We put them away like delicate flowers, their nectars to be cherished when need arises." There was a strange emphasis on "need" but Celebarien could not pursue it.  
  
Celeborn raised his free hand to her, and motioned to the empty chair at his side. "Come, and do not make yourself rare for us now."  
  
She obeyed, aware of eyes following her every motion, and so focused was she on making it to that chair without fault that she too audaciously took the hand offered. Too late she wished to take back such a bold gesture, but Lord Celeborn's hand tightened on her own, and she was once again arrested by a grief-stricken visage.  
  
Lord Celeborn was older even than Lord Elrond was, and the grief was only in his eyes, but it was enough to strike to the heart of her, its bleakness. Her own eyes welled in sympathy, and she shut them, but it was too late. Tears spilled against her cold cheeks.  
  
Celeborn's voice overlaid the amazed murmur of the witnesses about her. "What is this, Lady? You have no need for tears."  
  
Galadriel's voice replied for her: "Indeed, she does, for she weeps for you, dearest lord. Hers is a sensitive heart."  
  
Celebarien blinked and looked surprised upon the Lady of the Galadhrim, whose eyes were unexpectedly kind.  
  
She let hands guide her to sit down, and took at cup pressed into her hand. A respectful silence had fallen, and she dared not look up for fear of seeing herself as the center of attention.  
  
"Let no one suppose that Lady Celebarien is some overnice novice," Elrond said. "I myself am in her debt, and many among the residents and visitors of the Galadhrim who knew the wounds of grief have much to thank her for. Hers is a talent not ever duplicated in Middle-earth since the Ring War, a true heart healer. If you imagine that we treat our healers gently, than a heart healer herself should be handled like so much delicate glass."  
  
She looked up to protest and caught a small smile from the peredhel echoed in Celeborn's weary face. She shook her head and laughed for his benefit. "My work is not to hide in a velvet box, Great Lord, as well you know. Indeed, in the last years I was everywhere between Mirkwood and Fangorn in the name of duty."  
  
"Indeed," Celeborn agreed at Elrond's raised eyebrow, "she was tending those who would not return and giving hope to those who were undecided."  
  
"And collecting leaves along the way," Celebarien added with a smile. "I was even honored to come across a Tree Shepherd on one occasion; not Fangorn himself, but one of the lesser. Fangorn had moved west, towards the lands of the Shire."  
  
"Good news.indeed the best," Galadriel exclaimed, pleased for some reason that eluded Celebarien. "One can hope his kind would find those long- sundered in history."  
  
Celeborn raised his lady's hand to his lips briefly. Celebarien sipped her wine before setting it aside. Turning in her chair, she looked at her lord, and he, interpreting her look, turned fully toward her and gave forth his hands into hers.  
  
A hush fell. Celebarien closed her eyes, centering herself in time and space behind her closed eyelids, feeling her soul rooting deep in the center of her being, branching up through her diaphragm, and sending tendrils of energy through her limbs and out through her eyes. Then she looked deep into Celeborn's eyes, eyes so bottomless that she thought she could see the awakening of the Quendi in them. Elves of his age who had weathered through the ages were as mountains with deep roots. Adversities crashed uselessly against them, inflicting hurts that did not sink deep enough to truly wound them. But every once in a while those seemingly impervious mountains would take a strike that tore away at their core, and those around them could only wonder why that grief was the one to wound when so many others had glanced off with hardly a scratch.  
  
The curious act of heart-healing was never something she could describe. It had the feeling of falling into another, and yet she could not consciously say what she saw, except what came to her in the moment she spoke. Whatever her own heart saw, it would translate into the words that would mend. "My Lord," she said quietly, "dwell only on how she was in life. Recall that she loved you. Then, Dearest Lord, set her free. She was ever caged by her life no matter where she went. She had to find her happiness elsewhere."  
  
A soft sound behind her gave her to know that Elrond had taken that like salt to a wound. Inwardly she winced. Her injunction could have been to him as equally as Celeborn.  
  
Her lord bowed his head, his eyes closing. How tender and fragile he seemed suddenly!  
  
"This is the land of renewal, is it not?" she murmured. "Shall we not cast off our griefs together, and look about us as if we were children? "  
  
Dark blue eyes rose to meet hers, brightened with spilling light. Fingers gripped hers desperately. She never had the gift of thought-speech; her talent was within the compass of feeling, not words. This profound connection she felt went beyond anything she could recognize. It reminded her of only one other, with whom she had briefly shared a vaguely similar rapport during the course of his healing. She suddenly knew that this connection meant that she had reached her lord, and that his soul was responding, just as Elrond's had. But there was no threat to it, and indeed she welcomed it.  
  
There was a soft murmur. Celebarien blinked, focused once again on blue eyes much like her own. Celeborn was smiling, and his grip had softened and turned. Celebarien tried to smile, but she found it shaky, and the familiar trembling set in, until her lord's grasp tightened in concern.  
  
There was a movement behind her, and Elrond's dark head leaned over her shoulder, his hand at her elbow. "Lady? Are you too drained to stand?"  
  
"A moment," she murmured. The cup was pressed in her hand, and she sipped it, not wanting to compound her weariness with the softening effects of alcohol. But to her surprise, she tasted miruvor. She slid a glance at Elrond, whose concerned expression lightened in response. "Yes, please," she whispered to him, and he helped her up.  
  
Celeborn stood with her, taking her hand briefly before letting Elrond lead her away. The flet and its people blurred in her eyes. Just outside, she grabbed the hard arm of the Half-elven as her knees gave way. The world tilted, and she knew he had swung her up into his arms. A susurrus of voices distorted and paled, just as vision and feeling washed away. 


	2. No Matter Where She Went

Who Heals the Healer? By Laura L.  
  
Just playing in Tolkien's sandbox. With his toys.  
  
Part Two: No Matter Where She Went  
  
She woke in a warm bed, branches swaying above her in the soft golden light of mid-morning. She lay a long while, reviewing the night before, only cursorily aware of her surroundings, a flet to herself, and a few simple but elegant pieces of furniture.  
  
Had she truly helped her lord? Where had this sudden weariness come from?  
  
"The sleeper awakes," a good-natured voice admonished her. She turned her head to see Yávië there, a tray in his hands. He was wearing newly washed traveling clothes of varying shades of green that set off his autumn hair perfectly. Instantly she recalled that they were moving onward to the Healers House that day.  
  
"You should have waked me," she returned, sitting up slowly. Lethargy was in her limbs and sleep in her mind.  
  
"You needed your rest, and I would not gainsay anything Lord Elrond tells me, and hope to escape his wrath." Yávië grinned and Celebarien tried to smile back in response. Yávië was so open and sunny, from his coloring to his personality, that he seemed to radiate his cheer before him. Celebarien could always rely on Yávië's aura, which was almost blindingly gold. "So I will make sure you take your restoratives and that you are ready before we depart."  
  
Celebarien sighed, and took the cup Yávië handed to her as he sat on the edge of her bed. "I don't know why I am so weary," she admitted to her colleague. "It was a brief connection."  
  
"You are tired because you did a great healing on Lord Celeborn, for which we are all grateful. There's been word from the Lady herself. His outlook has much improved."  
  
A weight slipped from Celebarien's mind. "I am glad, though I do not know if it was my healing or his own that is to be praised."  
  
"You are too severe on yourself," the redhead complained mildly, and took back the empty cup. "Now eat and recover yourself. I'll send up water for bathing and a new set of clothes sent over from the Lord and Lady. There is no reason for speed today, only that we should have half a day to travel is all."  
  
"How is it that the House is so far?"  
  
"We exchange the duties for those in attendance at court, and for emergencies. The rest of us stay quiet at the House so that our patients can have peace there, away from complications of court and city. We have hardly any injuries here, and few reasons to be immediate to the center of court. Those who come to us suffer more in mind than body."  
  
Yávië left her, and servants brought the bathing tub, a great luxury, as if she were unable to descend to bathe like a normal person. The clothes came in as she was drying, and they were amazing, soft grays and blues, embroidered and layered, entirely complimentary to someone of her coloring. There was a circlet with a blue stone, the slender metal of which was silver and crafted into the curves of flowering vines. When at last her hair was braided properly for travel and the circlet placed just so, she was surprised to see that her weariness did not show, that the woman in the mirror looked young and unscarred, if naturally pale and perhaps too slender, a pale page to be writ upon and not the stained annals she knew her soul to be.  
  
No matter where she went, it seemed not to touch her.  
  
The woods deepened as they traveled south and west, and even though the forest was old, the trees bore the weight of years lightly. This was no Fangorn or Mirkwood, but Orome's Woods.  
  
"Where did Thranduil settle?" she asked Yávië. Thranduil of Mirkwood had been one of the last of the Sindarin Quendi to finally leave the Mortal Lands, preceding his kinsman Celeborn only by a few years. However, some of people had gone on before to settle a place for his court generations before.  
  
"They've taken the far southwestern and oldest section of Orome's Forest. Those Wood Elves are never happy unless they have ancient trees to care for, as you know. In fact, we're somewhere between Loreryn (our new Lothlorien) and Galentaur (the new Mirkwood) We get some traffic from Thranduil, but not much. He trusts to his own healers most of the time. We get the stranger or more immediate cases. One of his sons fell from a high tree not a moon ago, and we're still caring for him because it was the shorter distance to carry him."  
  
"A month to heal? Was it that serious?"  
  
"The wound wasn't serious at all. A gash, a broken leg.what you would expect from a bad fall. But he's not quite healed in the heart, if you know what I mean. The fall was the effect of some other problem, I think. Just the sort of thing we were hoping you'd look into."  
  
"I'll definitely look into it," Celebarien agreed. Wood Elves were more secretive and hardier than her own people, insular to the point of xenophobia, so it was always interesting to interact with them for experience's sake. "Any other problems I can take care of?"  
  
"You've already solved one of the more outstanding worries we had. I'd rather you concentrate on acclimating to your new home; make it comfortable; learn the terrain, so to speak. There are beautiful, sunny meadows and flowers and herbs, the river and the hills. Valar be praised."  
  
They stopped to eat and water the horses just short of dusk by the side of the narrow road, then remounted. The land climbed a bit, until they came to a turn in the trail and Celebarien caught sight of her new home.  
  
She did not have to ask who aided in the design. The Healers House was built high on a rock cliff between the issue of two waterfalls. Lights were glimmering in the windows and balconies. It was Imladris again, but a community that did not have to shelter in a defendable valley or hide itself. This House could be seen from down river for many leagues.  
  
They climbed the promontory, then crossed one of the river-falls by a wide and arched stone bridge. Already there were people waiting in the courtyard to take the horses and gear, and the head healer on the steps to welcome them.  
  
Laicë had been the Lady's head healer since the fall of Doriath; he was old and wise beyond anyone's ken, and as still as stone. His black hair was so long it would drag the ground if completely unbound, and the envy of men and maids alike. His pale green eyes were piercing and astute, and he communicated more with them than he did with voice or mind. His slow grace, stillness and beauty were a matter of pride among the healers, but in later generations he had become insular and reluctant to interface with court, delegating those duties to the younger healers and supervising the smaller, more intimate main house. There had been talk of Laicë choosing a successor for at least a hundred years, and the general consensus was that it would be Yávië, whose skills were exceptional and, more importantly, everyone respected and liked both among healers and the court that controlled them.  
  
Laicë 's green eyes watched Celebarien's polite advance, and he raised his cool hand to her cheek in the old manner of greeting after long parting. "Finally, the last child has come," he said. "I have longed for this day."  
  
Celebarien did not like falsehoods, even for the sake of politeness, so wisely kept silent on the subject of longing, merely nodding. Laicë's eyes would see the truth, even unsaid.  
  
"Why are you late, Child?" he inquired. Only someone as ancient as Laicë could call her such and not sound ridiculous.  
  
Yávië, ascending behind, said apologetically: "Celebarien was summoned to the Lord for heart healing, and we gave her time to recover this morning."  
  
A dark brow arched. "Hardly a day passes for you in Valinor, and already you have been put to work," he commented. "I wish to hear the whole tale later. Yávië, have her shown to her rooms. We have a special dinner for the occasion planned, but it will be just as well tomorrow as tonight. Things best done cannot be rushed."  
  
So she was shown through the palatial dimensions of the Healers House and up to her rooms. It was, like the whole, lovely. Someone had recalled her favorite colors of lavender and green in the silk covers and draperies, and she was surprised to see some of her things already set out, making her wonder if carts had gone directly from the ship, bypassing the night's delay.  
  
"Settle in and rest," Yávië suggested. "I will speak to Laicë. There's no work that can't be put off for a bit, and you need the time."  
  
Celebarien felt like protesting, but protesting what she wasn't sure. Resting was something she intrinsically knew she needed, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. Resting meant thinking and reflection, of time neither impacted with new complications nor filled with details to be dealt with.  
  
She arranged her few things, explored the new space, marveling at the intricacies of the wooden desk and the supplies left inside for her. She placed her book of leaves in the top drawer. The bookshelves were nearly empty but for what she thought either Laicë or Yávië had placed there as necessary: the standard book of herb lore which was always the best reference, a new book of maps, the old worn tome of healers' lore. She found two books absolutely blank, and made of flower-embedded, handmade papers reminiscent of the work of Celeborn's bookmaker. She spent more than the necessary time turning the pages and feeling the texture the flowers and thick paper.  
  
Later she attempted to sleep in the new, soft bed, and found to her surprise that sleep came easily and deeply.  
  
She dreamed of Mirkwood as it had been in those later years, but when she woke she could not recall it except for a sense of unease.  
  
There was water and restoratives by the bed, Yávië's presence still lingering, golden, in the room brightening in midday. She rose with the goblet and went out on her balcony to see what she could not see the night before.  
  
The view below was exquisite: an orchard and graceful statuary, and in the distance a sheltered house for herbs. It was restful on the eye, much more so than the view she had imagined of the rivers and rapids roaring down to the falls. The structure had been very minutely thought out.  
  
There was an Elf in green and brown walking aimlessly through the orchard, trailing his hands among the rough bark of the apple trees, his movements listless and awkward. From his mahogany hair and darkened aura, Celebarien guessed this was Thranduil's recuperating son. Yávië had the right of one thing; this one's true wound was to the spirit.  
  
She heard the door open and close, and soft footsteps, but did not turn, knowing them. Laicë appeared at her side, a shadow of dark hair and emerald robes. He nodded toward the listless Elf wandering there. "That one. A difficult patient, reluctant to let go of his pain. Quite within your scope, I think."  
  
"Yes," she replied, undaunted. It was the sort of work that had distinguished her among her colleagues , and she was not afraid of it, having left the worse work behind in a savage native land. "He has lost someone."  
  
Laicë did not turn his head but she could tell he was surprised. "Why do you think so?"  
  
"I just know," she said. "I've been acquainted with that sort of grief too well these past years."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
Celebarien turned. "I am sorry to keep you. Was there something you wanted?"  
  
"Only to see you and speak to you," the elder replied. "And I must say that Yávië is correct; you are too worn for someone so young. It is time you rested among your kind and shirk the harder responsibilities. There are other shoulders to bear them now."  
  
She nodded, knowing the wisdom of it, and avoided the bitter thoughts and memories of the time when her shoulders had taken the full weight of a burden immeasurable. "Give me leave alone to look into Thranduil's son, and I will be content to rest otherwise. It saddens to see one so young so darkened, particularly here."  
  
Laicë sighed and inclined his head. "Heed yourself, lest you too be darkened by your fatigue. It does us not good if you are worn thin, when such as his lordship needs you. Elrond, too, is here, and may have need as well."  
  
Celebarien started at the name, and recollection of the face came to her unwanted. She dared not distract herself even now with such remembrances, not if she wished to rest.  
  
After Laicë departed, she stood still on the balcony, regarding the apple trees and the wandering Elf in their shadows. He paused, staring up. Even from a distance she saw that his eyes were a brilliant green, but they too were shadowed and haunted. She nodded politely, and after a hesitation, he returned the gesture before continuing his circular course.  
  
She ate what was brought to her, and when the servants came in to light the fire in the hearth, she sat next to it with an empty mind. As soon as she was warmed, she retreated to the silken bed and fell deeply asleep.  
  
The sun did not wake her until it was high in the sky. For the first time in a long while she felt as if she had not wrestled with dreams and portents, and lay a long while listening to the birdsong in the orchard outside her window and the faint backdrop of the falls.  
  
And for the first time she was curious to know the name of the river that poured itself over the cliff, and whether there were maps of this part of the forest in that book on her shelves. Eventually these thoughts grew insistent, and she relented to get up, bathe, dress and seek out the kitchens for a bite.  
  
The cooks guided her to the empty dining hall and brought her fresh baked bed and fruit, with cool cider to drink, and that was where Yávië found her. He sank down on the chair across from her and signaled the to cook for his own cider.  
  
"I take it you slept well," he inquired.  
  
"Yes. My thanks." Celebarien gave her friend a sour face. "You told Laicë on me."  
  
"As if he doesn't have eyes of his own." The cook brought the cup and Yávië nodded his thanks, receiving a blush and a scurry.  
  
Celebarien remarked on this only with a raised brow. Yávië, like so many healers, had never married, and what private life he did have was never on display. "I slept so well, in fact, that I've a mind to go walking a little before dinner," she announced.  
  
Her colleague smiled. "That is a wonderful idea! Put the color in your cheeks again, we shall, and fatten you up tonight. The last and the youngest has returned, after all!"  
  
Celebarien smiled into her cup, allowing the auburn-haired Elf's golden aura wash over her own. "Perhaps the first and not the second," she said pertly. "Is there a map of the area, or shall I find a guide?"  
  
Yávië paused, wrinkled his brow, then smiled sunnily. "I know just the one," he said.  
  
++++  
  
The lone figure stood under the apple trees was much as he had the day before, and if it hadn't been for the change in apparel and the clean, combed hair, she might have thought he had not moved all night. He stirred as she neared, straightening his long form. The Elves of Mirkwood tended to not be so tall, but they were of a height.  
  
He bowed, and the face emerging from lengths of mahogany hair was very fair, but the eyes were dull, and there was a neglected air about him that she could not place.  
  
"Well met," she greeted. "I am Celebarien of the House of Cúthalion, out of Doriath."  
  
"Legolas, son of Thranduil of Galentaur at your service, Lady," he replied after a minute pause, over her titles she doubted not. He was still young enough to use his paternity, she realized.  
  
"Prince Legolas, then?" she asked with a little smile.  
  
"A daughter of Strongbow's house might demand higher company," he said with a self-depreciating twist of the mouth, "but I would rather not use that title."  
  
She nodded her willingness to his wishes.  
  
"You are a healer here," he said, part question.  
  
"I am the last, from the last ship," she agreed. "I tarried long in the Mortal Lands, and have lately come with my lord into Valinor, and thence here." At his wary look, she amended: "I am in sore need of a guide today. Of healing we need not speak, although we must speak of it in days to come."  
  
With a resigned set of his shoulders, he nodded. "I would be happy to escort such a fine lady anywhere she wishes," he told her, his attempt at gallantry falling a little short.  
  
"I should hope you would not be half so generous if I were half so fine," she remarked lightly as he led her from the orchard.  
  
He laughed, startled. "Your pardon, Lady. My chivalry has seen better days."  
  
"One can hope it will see them again in future. Now, Yávië tells me there is a meadow a little northwards."  
  
"Indeed, I know the place."  
  
He took her down narrow footpaths, trailing his fingertips across the bark of young trees, his head canted so his eyes watched the swaying of the branches above him. He reminded her of an awkward youth far gone. Although far from boyhood, and a veteran of the Ring War, there was some echo of how he might have been once, light-hearted and carefree.  
  
He brought her to a meadow flowering yellow and purple in the late afternoon sun and stood with her on the edge as she gazed her fill of the warm and soul-filling sight. A small, cool breeze moved the stems and flowers like ripples across a still pond in a wave of color.  
  
"Shall I leave you here for a time, Lady?" he asked courteously, "or do you require a companion?"  
  
"I would not stay you if you care to be elsewhere," she murmured. "I take it you want to commune with the trees out yonder?"  
  
He chuckled. "Just so. Shall I return within the hour and see you safely back?"  
  
"I thank you, yes."  
  
She did not expect to hear him go, and indeed she did not as she stood for a long while, breathing deep of a mixture of organic scents. Her nose knew many of them, even in this combination, and she thought to bring a basket next time to pick the asphodel and nephredil. Yet, she was loath to step forward, somehow, for although the beauty of the place moved her, it did not move her to joy. Instead, her chest ached with a strange mysterious regret that was melting into the realization that finally, finally here was happiness that could be tasted, tasted and savored, not shunted for a later time, not pushed away because she dare not feel it.  
  
She could finally begin to taste joy again, she who had made a habit to subjugate all of her gladness and sorrow.  
  
She realized that finally this place could touch her if she let it, yet she did not know if she could let anything touch her, after so long.  
  
She did eventually walk among the flowers, breaking off a few pale nephridel for her rooms. She found a shady bower along the edge of the meadow and there she lazed for a while, letting the breeze stroke her face and the scent of flowers and wild herbs tickle her nose.  
  
She must have just dozed when Legolas's deliberately audible step woke her, and blinking, she glanced up to find the son of Thranduil with the sun behind his head, making his hair blaze darkly red like a false corona.  
  
"And how do you like this place?" he asked, offering her a hand.  
  
"I like it well, although I meant not to sleep."  
  
"I think it required, Lady, that one must experience the joy of napping in a sunny meadow," he said most seriously as they made their way back to the House. "It shows a certain disrespect to not succumb to the pleasures of nature, do you not think?"  
  
"Exactly so," she agreed with a smile. "I have always thought so, but I think that is a philosophy inherent to the woodland realms."  
  
"Just so. I have always thought the Sindar more advanced in that regard," he said and she had to laugh, for she, too, was Sindarin, and it had always been something of pride to be so.  
  
The sun was setting as they climbed the steps into the House. They parted with courtesies on both sides, and she took a trip to her rooms to put the flowers in water and change into something more in keeping with a special dinner, as she was the guest of honor.  
  
She noted wryly that there were more gowns in her closet than had been earlier that day, and they all seemed to echo the colors of the dress she had received from the Lord and Lady except one or two. She favored the slender periwinkle gown she found in the midst of the sea of gray and blue, and tried it on in front of a newly arrived mirror. She approved of the trailing sleeves and long row of laces down the front that flattered her waistline and diverted the eyes from the boyishness of her figure.  
  
She drew a deep breath and entered the hall, nodding politely to the assembled healers there, familiar and unfamiliar alike. Yávië saw her and took charge, beginning the rounds of introduction and re-acquaintance. There was a strange wary curiosity in the eyes of several of the younger ones, and she wondered what sort of hierarchy she was disturbing to create such a reaction. She pushed aside these thoughts and made an effort to appear friendlier than she felt, knowing that she often made the impression of cool disdain among strangers.  
  
At last, they were allowed to sit and be served. She sat at Laicë's left, with Yávië on his right, which only reinforced the impression that Yávië would one day be head healer. This impression was furthered when Yávië made the opening toast in the more retiring Laicë's stead.  
  
There was the more nourishing fowl and a bit of venison brought in by Galadhrim hunters who provided for all of the Lord and Lady's subjects. The bread was fresh from the ovens and redolent with fresh herbs. All manner of drink went about, wines and ales and the heavier, cloying meads favored by Thranduil's folk. All imbibed to their taste. As was traditional, there was gift giving involved in the arrival of a healer, new or not, and of this Celebarien had forgotten. It had seemed a long while since last she had lived among her peers, and the established ceremonies had slipped her mind. She came to realize, as her colleagues gave her little things for her welcome, that she had become a symbol representing the end of an era. No longer would her people gaze East in expectation. Now their gaze was at last completely inward.  
  
Traditionally, the gifts were small, usually handcrafted or made by the gifts of the giver. They were meant to be practical, so there were baskets of dried flowers, jars of scented unguents, a bracelet of small translucent river stones, a small, copied book of herbal remedies, a woven cloth belt tasseled in a rainbow of pale colors, a jar of lavender ink, a curved small knife, and a number of thin silver rings. Each gift was meant to reflect the skills of the giver, and by this Celebarien learned the talents of her peers. Yávië came forward with an intricate hair clasp. Laicë's gift was a bow of the Galadhrim design, inlaid in gold. Celebarien, who had left her own worn bow behind, was thankful for this gift, although she suspected that Laicë meant it to be symbolic of her house.  
  
It was at last time for her to say the closing words, and for a dread moment she did not know what to say, she who had been used to solitude for so long. But she took solace in her own honest manner and, standing, said: "I was long tarrying in the Mortal Lands, true; forgive me if I have forgotten how to be among civilized folk." This earned a surprised laugh. "I give myself over to your kind indulgence, for am like a child again in a new home. In return, I hope to be of use and make of myself a diligent servant. To you, my teachers." And she saluted them with the remnants of her wine.  
  
There was a polite reciprocation, and the diners began to move off to their own pursuits. Laicë excused himself, and Yávië slipped off to coordinate the clean up, leaving Celebarien at last to her own devices.  
  
As Celebarien began to gather her gifts, one of the musicians who had been playing in upper balcony approached, a lap-harp under her arm. She was extraordinarily young, long-limbed and coltish, her dark brown hair plaited with a multitude of beaded and ribboned braids. Her eyes, however, were a familiar blue, the Teleri blue Celebarien saw in her own reflection daily.  
  
"I am Tuilë," she said, bowing. "I believe I am your cousin."  
  
After seeing those eyes, Celebarien was hardly surprised. "Ah, in what way do you think so?"  
  
"The stablemaster at Loreryn once told me I had a cousin-healer who kept her stock with him, who was the daughter of Beleg. I am the great-grand- daughter of Brethil, who was brother to the sire of Cúthalion."  
  
Celebarien tried to mentally track that, and found that, indeed, they were related to some degree. "Well met, Cousin," she said happily. "I beg your pardon for questioning the connection. I am not in the habit of being in the company of family."  
  
"No need to apologize! I would wonder at it if a stranger introduced herself as a relation, myself!"  
  
"A musician, are you? A healer?"  
  
"Healer's apprentice," Tuilë amended. "Harper on the side, so to speak. It whiles away the time. That, and horses."  
  
Celebarien smiled. "Then indeed you are my cousin in more ways than one!"  
  
"Ay, I've heard you were as horse-mad in your day as I am now," the younger agreed. "You used to train them up."  
  
"Yes, when I had the time," Celebarien replied, "before things got.complicated."  
  
"Do you mean the work in the Mortal Lands? But that is over, is it not? Will you train again? I should so like to learn it from you. No one trains them Sindar-style as our family once did, and the older horses are starting to fade. There's only the one or two from your training left, brought over on earlier ships, and they are prized like gold in the Galadhrim stables."  
  
Celebarien felt her brows rising further and further at this. "Are they? I did not know. Then I suppose asking to have Morrillë back might be a struggle."  
  
"Your black mare? Is she living still? She made the crossing? Oh, please do recall her here!"  
  
Celebarien shook her head. "What is here for a spirited Sindar steed? She is easily wearied by lack of excitement and company. Better to be busy in the greater stables than to be exiled in this quiet place."  
  
Tuilë's disappointment was easily read, young as she was. "Oh, please reconsider! You shall not be so busy here with duties, and will have more time for such things as horses. There is Thranduil's Galentaur and the Lord and Lady's Loreryn to ride to."  
  
These younger ones, Celebarien mused, looking into the young, emotional face. Tuilë's excitement made her feel every year of her life. There was a mighty gap between Celebarien's pre-cataclysm generation and the later generations of Legolas and Tuilë, although the older Elves called Celebarien "young" as easily as Tuilë. Despite that gap of time, there were few generations of children between. Elves did not breed prolifically in times of war and upheaval. Celebarien's generation had been the last great generation between the fall of Doriath and the rise of Gil-galad.  
  
There was a lightness of personality in the later generations that Celebarien's did not understand. Perhaps the certainty of returning to Valinor, implicit in the characters of the young ones had gifted them that lightness. In Celebarien's generation, there was always an uncertainty about the future.  
  
"Cousin," she said after a long moment, "I will reconsider on your behalf."  
  
It was almost a reward to see a bright smile in response.  
  
She found Legolas in the orchard, but this time neither of them pretended it was a merely social occasion. They found a shady place in soft grass and there Celebarien looked into his eyes, for the first time in the purpose of healing.  
  
"You have lost someone," she said, confirming the first impression once again. "It does not allow you to mend." The Sindarin prince's startled glance was as obvious as a shout, and Celebarien knew that she had been correct. "Tell me of this person."  
  
Legolas shrugged, but his eyes were dark and weary. "No one has died."  
  
"But the friendship is lost, nonetheless," she replied, "and immoderately you grieve. In your heart, you grieve."  
  
Legolas's mouth trembled and his head sunk lower, as if a great weight were settling over his neck and shoulders.  
  
"Can you not retrieve--?"  
  
"It is not possible."  
  
"Surely--?"  
  
"It is not possible, Healer!" Shadowed green eyes snapped at her in sudden fury. "You do not know of what you speak!"  
  
And with that, the Sindar was on his feet and striding away.  
  
Celebarien sat for a long while, reviewing the words, wondering how she could have given offense. It was not, she surmised, her own limitations this time. It was his.  
  
Laicë was not surprised when she reported to the head healer that afternoon in the study where Laicë kept court.  
  
"Even your famous talents will be challenged," he said. "This is a young and stubborn creature, not used to divulging what he wishes not to." At her look, he sighed understandingly. "That does not ease your own feelings of disquiet, I know. Try again in a few days. Let him think on things. These young ones need more time to reflect than the older generations."  
  
"So I understand," Celebarien replied, thinking of Tuilë. "Speaking of which, how shall I send to Loreryn for my mount? Tuilë and I have been thinking it would do me good to go riding, and I would prefer a Cúthalion- trained steed if I am to make a habit of it."  
  
"It is a fine idea," Laicë agreed. "There are daily messengers to and from court. Send a missive addressed to your family, and it will find its way there." The head healer showed her where messages were left for delivery.  
  
Celebarien wrote a letter to the stable master. She spent the rest of the day looking over maps of the area, and later discussing them with Tuilë, who had been adventurously exploring when duty permitted, but who had concentrated on the northern parts of the forest.  
  
"Is Thranduil friendly enough to allow explorations to the southwest? I should like to consult with the prince's people for insight."  
  
Her cousin shrugged. "They won't shoot at us, at least, and it shall be an adventure."  
  
"It shall at that."  
  
It took two days for the arrival of Morrillë. Elven steeds came and went at will, so she could not count that the mare would be at the stables where the messenger told her she was left there. She was happy, therefore, to see black Morrillë running the length of the fenced grazing yard, scrutinizing her new home. Celebarien whistled and the mare turned, and trotted over, ducking her proud head to be scratched.  
  
"I am sorry for the tiresome journey, my friend," Celebarien murmured. "I have need of you here. Is it not a pretty place?"  
  
Morrillë blew against her fingers, nodding, and rolled a wry eye toward the stables where Celebarien saw a few horses' heads peaking curiously from the wide door. One of them was Tuilë's chestnut stallion, Aduial. "That one? He's a fine fellow, though I'm not sure he's your type. He's still on the green side. Still, you'll be much in company, so it doesn't hurt to get acquainted."  
  
Morrillë nodded against her hand, and turning, sped across the field.  
  
"She is, as always, the finest," said a deep and familiar voice behind her. It sent a shiver of alarm down her back at its unexpectedness. It must be alarm, she told herself. Slowly she turned, blinking at Elrond Peredhel.  
  
"My lord," she said, thinking that her smile might be a trifle forced.  
  
"I wanted to present Morrillë to you, but Laicë got to me first," the former lord of Imladris explained on the way back to the house.  
  
Celebarien glanced at him surreptitiously. He seemed at ease and casual in his thin linen shirt and leather riding clothes. His glossy, black hair was braided in a thick cable for the journey. He hardly seemed the self contained and sophisticated lord she knew. This was confirmed by his aura, which instead of being a wave of calm blue, was sparking a deep violet- indigo. She wondered at that. Why was he agitated?  
  
"You brought her? Then I am in your debt, although I cannot see that it is worth your time to deliver a horse to the House of Healing."  
  
"It is worth my time that I was bringing her to you, Lady," he said, in that way of his that said he was not being gallant, just truthful. "To be honest, I have other business here."  
  
"Is that so? Then my guilt is assuaged. I would not be the one who took you from those who need you."  
  
His smile flashed, silver-gray eyes crinkling. "You value yourself less than you should," he said. "To be truthful, you are the reason I am here."  
  
"Oh?" She dared not show her face to his penetrating glance. "I am flattered."  
  
"Your tone says not."  
  
She did not know how to reply to that.  
  
"Laicë has asked my opinion concerning Legolas, which in turn I hope will help you," he continued. "Laicë is also concerned for your health, and I can see why."  
  
"This conspiracy grows every day," she commented.  
  
"Are you saying we should not be concerned? I remember the past, Lady. You were never this retiring."  
  
No, she thought. I wanted always to be moving, to be doing.and look at what that brought me! "I live among a community of healers, My Lord. What do you hope to see that they cannot?"  
  
He stopped, forcing her to halt as well out of courtesy's sake. His piercing eyes studied her, and she presented him with the face of one whom has long shielded her inner self from others. "What do I hope to see? That is an interesting question, Lady Arien, which begs others: why are you concerned about what I see? What are you hiding?"  
  
The flash of irritation she felt was more for herself than for him. She should have thought more carefully before she opened her mouth. "As ever, you are too keen, My Lord."  
  
He seemed to want to respond to that, but they were interrupted by the running figure of Tuilë, braids and ribbons flying as she leapt down the stairs. "Celebarien!" She realized her mistake as she hit the last step and looked directly at her cousin, taking in the figure standing next to her. "My apologies. You have company."  
  
Thank you, Tuilë! Celebarien sighed internally. "My Lord Elrond, this is my cousin, Tuilë. Tuilë, this is Lord Elrond of Im- your pardon, Loreryn."  
  
Tuilë's bright, curious examination at the peredhel confirmed Celebarien's suspicion that her private life was very much a matter of speculation.  
  
"A pleasure," Elrond said with a small bow.  
  
"The pleasure is entirely mine," Tuilë returned with a small bow of her own and a smile. "You are not the same Elrond of the history books, then? The herald of Gil-Galad?"  
  
Celebarien almost winced. The sorrows of older Elves meant little to the younger, she knew, but Elrond's history was full of heartache and misery; not the sort of thing one mentioned in casual conversation.  
  
"Sadly, I am, Lady," the peredhel said.  
  
"Oh, that is grand! I did not know my cousin knew such an auspicious person. She surprises me every day."  
  
Elrond turned a wry eye on Celebarien. "In that, Lady, we are not so different."  
  
"Was there something you wanted?" Celebarien asked Tuilë quickly.  
  
"I've heard Morrillë was here. I wanted to -" Tuilë made an aborted gesture toward the field.  
  
"By all means. She was running the pasture fence a moment ago and giving Aduial the eye."  
  
"She moves fast, then. Unlike her mistress," Tuilë laughed, and took off like a shot before Celebarien could protest.  
  
"Filly," she grumbled and Elrond laughed.  
  
"I take it she is horse-crazy like many of the line?"  
  
"Doubtless. She and I will be riding out together, now that Morrillë is here."  
  
"I am glad of it."  
  
Apparently he though it would be good for her health, she thought resentfully, but she held her tongue, aware that she had already revealed too much of herself to him.  
  
"I would like to see Legolas sometime tomorrow, if possible," he said.  
  
"I would be happy to allow it. I was to speak again with him, anyway."  
  
"I hear the first attempt was not so satisfactory."  
  
Celebarien sighed. "Indeed. It is rare that a patient runs from me."  
  
Elrond's brows rose. "What was said that caused such a reaction?"  
  
"I had determined that his ailment is more of the heart than body. He has lost a friend. I asked if he might retrieve the friendship. When he said it was impossible, I questioned him. He fled."  
  
The lord frowned. "Then indeed you were correct; the lost of the friend is the cause of his fall and slow recovery."  
  
"I fear so."  
  
"How long did it take to ascertain this cause?"  
  
"For me? A moment."  
  
He laughed softly. "I am not the only keen one here," he said at her questioning glance. "This has been a mystery ailment for a while now among the healers, and a mere moment is all it takes for you to understand it."  
  
"I have had .some experience with this sort of problem."  
  
She avoided his quick look.  
  
"I imagine so," was all he said.  
  
It was not a large dinner, the reception Laicë had arranged for the favorable guest . So when Celebarien entered the smaller eating hall, there were only half a dozen others. She made her obeisance to Laicë and Elrond, noticing that he had let his hair down and had changed into the velvet robes she remembered. It was not something she wanted to linger on, but the observation stayed with her longer than she wished, sitting uncomfortably over their earlier conversation of the day, like too sweet candy on a restless stomach.  
  
She had little appetite but forced herself to more than pick at her food when Yávië's glance told her she was not fooling him. The two others at table were Laicë's steward and the herbal master, a quiet woman she remembered vaguely from the night before because of the flowers she wore in her hair.  
  
Elrond seemed to recognize her, and gave her an acknowledging nod. Celebarien wondered briefly why he did not speak with the woman, but told herself that Elrond's life was not her concern.  
  
It was still not her concern when later, from her own conversation with Laicë, she saw him in close conference with the woman.  
  
"I've forgotten her name," Celebarien said.  
  
"She is Alda," Laicë replied with a strange, amused expression. "They seem to know one another."  
  
"How long has she been here?"  
  
"She was sent from Tirion not too long ago, and a better herbalist we have never had." His pale green eyes glinted. "Do you fear he is diverted?"  
  
Celebarien stared at him, startled. "Pardon?"  
  
But just then the servants entered with dinner and it was time to sit down to board.  
  
Elrond called to her as she was stepping out into the foyer in Yávië's wake, and she waited for him, outwardly passive and inwardly irritated. Why did he have to be here, and seek her out? She longed for the silence of her room where she could finally be at peace.  
  
But in that peace, she would be forced to think.  
  
"My Lord?" she asked.  
  
His eyes flashed. "My Lady," he said, in that dry, ironic tone that she was beginning to detest. "When were you planning to see Legolas tomorrow?"  
  
"Early evening. Shall I send someone to you then?"  
  
"I was hoping to pay my respects to Thranduil sometime tomorrow or the day after."  
  
"Tuilë and I were thinking something similar," she admitted. "And Morrillë seemed restless from the journey."  
  
"It was a highly uninteresting journey for her," he agreed. "What say you? Will you ride with me?"  
  
"Just you and I, My Lord?" That possibility was somehow alarming, and she strove to keep it from her voice.  
  
"Tuilë, if she wishes, and Legolas if he can be released."  
  
"Legolas is not well enough yet, but Tuilë might find the idea of riding with you absolutely fascinating. A page of history, as it were." She almost smirked at Elrond's pained expression. "And I have been thinking to consult his own people over Legolas's problems. There surely will be insight there."  
  
"And so my company ranks very low," he said with a patently dramatic morose look.  
  
This was, of course, never true. She had always adored his company. It was his perceptiveness she despised, and the constant self-assessment of her own responses to him that she seemed to do when he was about. His presence drained her, for she was always on guard about him.  
  
"It does not rank low," she said with a smile. "On the contrary."  
  
He smiled in return, but when he moved to take her hand, she turned and in the following silence headed back up the stairs.  
  
"Lady?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You would tell me if there was something I could do for you?"  
  
She paused on the stairs, her fingertips trailing the hand-carved rails, and glanced at him.  
  
A great lord, Elrond was, and if she had not been his healer, she would never raise her head in his company, so great was he. But there were his earnest silvery eyes looking up at her, waiting on her answer, and all she could think was that she did not deserve his concern. "Do you wish the truth?" she returned.  
  
"Of course," he answered, with a little puzzled frown that warned her that she best not press her luck tonight.  
  
"My lord has enough cares of his own that he must not be concerned for this lowly person."  
  
"Lady Arien!" His voice deepened when he was vexed, she now recalled. And there was the deep violet tone again to his usually blue aura.  
  
"My lord?" she returned lightly, feeling a bit perverse.  
  
"At some point, Lady, avoidance will no longer be a solution."  
  
She blinked down at him. "I am most aware, My Lord." She turned. "Good night." 


End file.
